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PRICE 35 CENTS. 









^=POEMS=^ 

-BY- 

J. Francis Lee. 


Rurke & Gregory, Print, Norfolk 

























Ui'RARY of WQHbSS 
Two Copies r(tujv«u 

StP 28 IHUi) 


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Table of contents. 


Pages. 

1. What You Gwine to do Wid Ham? 6 

2. Ode to Sunset - 8 

3. The Bethel Hero - 49 

4. Elegy—Life’s Mirror 9 

5. Tribute to Dr. N. A. Crockett - 11 

6. Ode to Childhood 12 

7. Uncle Joe’s Religion 12 

8. Memoirs of a Scholar. Tribute to 

the Memory of Prof. F. H. Noble, 
A.M., L.L.B. - 13 

9. The Fugitive ' - 16 

10. The Waif - - 18 

11. When Susanna Strikes De S’prano 

Key.19 

12. The Transient—Tribute to the 

Memory of Prof. W. M. Prov¬ 
ider, A.M. - - - - 21 

13. Slavery—The Author’s First Poem 22 



Pates 

14. Satire on the Hood Literary Society 23 

15. Ode to Spring 24 

16. Uncle Reuben’s Lamentations - 25 

17. Why—Tribute to the Memory of 

Bishop Charles Calvin Petty, 
A.M., D.D. .... 28 

18. The Ocean’s Song ... 31 

19. Maudele—To the sacred memory 

of a member who requested her 
pastor to remember her as he 
knelt at the altar in prayer - 32 

20. The Murderer 34 

21. The Hero of Calvary—Tribute to 

the Memory of the Rev. M. 
Lewis, D.D. - - - - 36 

22. Ode to Life 39 

23. The Penitent’s Soliloquy - - 40 

24. Honor.41 

25. Remembered - - 48 

26. Rock Hill Bug-gy - 42 

27. The Fair Lady pf Braddeck - 44 

28. Lorend.51 


INTRODUCTION. 


By Rev. L. H. Reynolds, D. D., Pastor of 
St. John’s A. M. E. Church. 


To introduce the litera r y work of a cultured 
Christian gentleman to a circle of thoughtful, ap¬ 
preciative readers is a privilege to be coveted. That 
privilege is mine in this precursory note. 

Rev. J. Francis Lee, A. M., the author of the fol¬ 
lowing beautiful and touching poems, is an able 
preacher, a successful pastor, a man of extensive 
reading and a careful student of books, of men and 
of Nature. 

Beginning life under the great disadvantages 
which confront a poor black boy in this country, he 
has steadily fought his way upward, through the 
common schools and through college, working in the 
wheat fields, and in the brick yards, and in the barber 
shops, anywhere and everywhere, that he might 
earn an honest penny to pay his way through school, 
today he holds an enviable place among the strong 
men of the race as a deep thinker, a ripe scholar 
and a pleasing speaker. 

His record as a preacher and pastor may well en¬ 
courage the younger men to more thorough prepara¬ 
tion. The day is here when the people will not only 
respect and support ability and character in the 
pulpit, but demand these qualifications in those who 
essav to lead them. 


:i 





For these reasons the services of the author have 
been in great demand in various parts of the country. 
He is equally at home before the cold, critical audi¬ 
ences which in some parts of the land expect calm 
reasoning as before the emotional congregations 
which in other places draw deeply upon the spiritual 
force of the speaker. Hence he has been equally suc¬ 
cessful in charge of large churches in Massachusetts 
and in South Carolina. 

Modest and unassuming, as all truly cultured gen¬ 
tlemen are, he is genial, pleasant and companionable. 
He wears well. 

This is J. Francis Lee, the man and minister. 

Blessed above measure is that man who hears the 
music to which other ears are deaf: Listening to 
the murmurs welling up from the deepest recesses of 
the human heart, to the throbbing of the great heart 
of Nature, to the invisible choirs of earth, air and 
sky, he hears melodies which other ears do not catch. 
To hear must be inspiring, but to give it harmony, 
to make it audible to duller senses, to make it touch 
the soul, and cheer the spirit, and refine the intel¬ 
lect, and lift the life—that is genius. We call the one 
thus favored a Poet. 

Rev. Mr. Lee has this genius, this “poetic fire,” 
and his long and careful literary training enables 
him to clothe his thoughts in vigorous, smooth and 
elegant language. 

In a thoughtfully written sketch of the author 
occurs this very just and discriminating sentence: 
“Born in abject poverty, reared in untold hardship, 
he managed through perseverance and an industry 
little short of magic to acquire an education through 
which he is enabled to give expression to a soul that 
is inspired with true poetic genius.” 


4 


The author has written upon a variety of themes 
with that depth of thought, facility of expression, 
and happy arrangement of versification which makes 
it a delight to follow him. 

Summer and winter, sunshine and shadow, love and 
hatred, pathos and sarcasm, the lofty and the lowly, 
all find masterly treatment and svmmetrical ar- 
rangement. 

This is J. Francis Lee, the Poet. 

Know the man. Read his book. 

Norfolk, Ya., Jan. 12, 1905. 


5 


WHAT YOU GWINE TO DO WID HAM? 


De white folks powerful listless now, 

About de colored man; 

Dey sav he 'ad better pack his duds 
And leave dis blessed land. 

Yes, 'tis a ’mentous question, sah, 

It puzzles Uncle Sam, 

Politisuns, all de law. 

What you gwine do wid Ham ? 

Afore de war da weren't no cause 
For all dis har alarm; 

De white folks had de darkies pat, 
Dey held him wid a charm, 

Dey made him drib de oxin cart, 

And Hogged him for a sham; 

But now dey axin’ ’mong demselves, 
What we gwine do wid Ham? 

Down in Dixy Ham was fetched, 

He did not have no show; 

He wurk’d, labored, night and day, 

J ill lie could do no more. 

Dey say he’s awful triflin’ now. 

And dat he lubs his dram; 

Yes. old Ephraim’s got his faults, 

Rut what you gwine do wid Ham ? 

De for’st been fill’d by de color’d man, 
De cotton he has lio’d ; 

De country tri’d to de her best. 

Ham done bar’d his load; 


0 





He never throws no dynamite— 

He’s too much like a lamb; 

For all dis lab’r done for you’ns. 

What vou gwine do wid Ham ? 

Ham staid home at first, you know, 

While his massa went to war; 

He watch’d Miss Anne and young Mars Charles 
Grow’d bread massa jaw. 

Ham was true to eberv trust; 

He staid at home very calm; 

I know dar’s left some gratitude— 

What you gwine do wid Ham ? 

I know Mas Charles ain’t mad wid Ham 
Because lie’s gettin' on; 

Ain’t always bound to grub de swamps, 

Hoe de cotton an’ corn. 

Dev say we got no right to vote: 

Well, dat’s an awful slam; 

Up comes dat ’plexious question still. 

What you gwine do wid Ham? 

To treat all black folks just alike, 

One mus’ have lots of grit. 

Wid all dis ’provement and good sense, 

And what Ham’s tryin’ to git. 

Dey say all darkies look alike. 

Dey inns’ call each one Sam; 

Den dat leave* de question yet, 

What you gwine do wid Ham ? 

Now we got de Jim Crow car. 

And de black man’s bid to ride; 

Some don’t want Aunt Hagar’s son 
To set up by dey side. 


J 


Dev thought to hear tie darkie fust 
And butt just like a ram; 

But dat don’t solve de problem yet— 
What you gwine do wid Ham ? 

Ham’s de tufFest bone you know, 

])e nation has got to know; 

A legislatin’ in deni halls. 

And den dat mighty war. 

Ain’t ’nough ships to take us off— 

Gwine to stay h&r in de jam; 

Dar's neb’r no good in lynch in’ us— 
What you gwine do wid Ham ? 

Now Ham don sot himself to stay, 

And dat’s all right, you see; 

To git de cash, build stores and banks, 
Rock Haniites on his knees. 

We’s gwine to hab no fuss ’bout dis. 
But pile our goods like yam; 

Ain’t no ’lution reached 11 s vet— 

What you gwine do wid Ham? 


ODE TO SUNSET. 


The tired sun had run his race. 

And lately gone to rest; 

Beauteous smiles from his rugg’d face 
Still lingered in the west. 

The cricket’s chirp and swallow’s dart 
Proclaimed the death of Dav; 

The homebound lad from city mart, 
The quarrlsome notes of the Jay. 


8 




Ihe ringlet smoke in coils of blue 
From the village chimney glides; 
The farmer’s lads and lassies, too, 
Over meadows slowly stride. 

The tired twilight laid to rest 
By a gentle mother’s hand; 

The dawn is stripp’d of hoary crest, 
Glistening tears now bathe the land. 


LIFE’S MIRROR. 


I was musing as I saunter’d long a pathway tint’d 
brown, 

Where the leafless trees were bowing and the grass 
was beat’n down. 



9 


















Soft and sweetly murmur’d nature, feather’d song¬ 
sters breath’d their notes; 

There bashful, lurking acorns shed their rus¬ 
set, dingy coats. 

Sweetly musing o’er childhood, fraught with danger 
and great joy; 

O’er past scenes still remembered, o’er mishap of 
the bovs. 

But the youthful faces vanished long the path their 
feet have trod; 

Some are heroes, some have fallen, others slumber 
’neath the sod. 

I was musing o’er manhood, with its labors, gloom 
and pain. 

O’er loved ones now departed, o’er past life once again. 

Sweetly muse. then, o’er children, which have grown 
to manhood now; 

No! no fragrant, blushing flowers, but wrinkles 
on their brow. 

Shall 1 dream o’er the future—what will be, not 
what has been; 

Sing to men a sol’nm story, how this mortal life 
will end? 

Here we lmg’r but a moment, fetter’d in this prison 
cave. 

Doom’d to penal pen’tence ever, human gen’us can 
not save. 

I was musing o’er the ag’d, far advanc’d from bud¬ 
ding youth; 

And their wither’d forms distort’d tell the whole 
of nature’s truth. 

Let us read in the*e afflict’ons what the fates have 
doom’d for nil. 

That a summons soon will warn us we must answer 
to the call. 


10 


List! ’tis twilight's gloom and sorrw o’er awe this 
musing soul. 

Soon the rosv-finger’d morning dawn upon him, 
dead, cold. 

What will men say of their comrade who has fall’n 
on his shield? 

Will they count deeds of service that he wrought 
upon the field? 

We shall greet ’gain the heroes who have broken 
paths in life. 

Join them in victorious sonnets of their triumph 
o’er strife. 

Each shall ling’r in a valley ’neath the silent realms 
of shade, 

Where the silence is not brok’n—there, their epi¬ 
taphs are made. 


IN MEMORIAM. 


To Dr. N. A. Crockett. 


Skill and gen’us are not worthless, 
To the leader of the van; 

They attune one’s greatest powers 
And direct the feeble hand. 

Tbit there is a greater power, 
r l hat does act a greater part, 

Puts the soul in touch with Jesus 
Ana attunes the pilgrim’s heart. 


11 





MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 


Happy are the treasured thoughts of childhood days 
gone by, 

When pleasure found wherever sought, filled my 
heart without a sigh. 

But, oh! what sorrow, grief and pain manhood days 
have given. 

Oh, childhood, return, return, or let me flee to 
heaven. 


UNCLE JOE’S RELIGION. 


Ise powerful happy, 

A serbin’ ob de Lord; 

I ain’t been long convert’d, 
Ise feedin’ on his word; 

I oft’n go to meetin’, 

I loves to set and sing— 

Ise don got deligion. 

I’ll neber work agin. 

Tain’t no use in talkin’ 

I know Ise all right; 

I’m done saw old satan 
In de vision of de night. 

De rabin feed Elijah— 

Jus poured de manner in; 

ise don got deligion 
An’ I’ll neber work agin. 


12 





I ain’t afraid of starvin’, 

Ise trustin’ in de Lord; 

He cares for his chillun 

Who will lean ’pon his word. 
White folks calls me crazy, 
But I don’t mind dey chin— 
Ise don got deligion 

An’ I’ll neber work agin. 


When dis life is obey. 

An’ I am bound to go 
To meet wid brudder Jasper 
On de eberlastin’ shor. 

I’ll tell all how I serbed him 
Who sot me free from sin— 
Ise don got deligion 

An’ I’ll neber work agin. 


IN MEMORIAM. 


Tribute to the Late Prof. F. H. Noble. Professor of 
Mathematics and Science at Livingston College, 
Salisbury, N. C. 

Ceaseless weeping, sad reflections. 

Cast their shadows o’er that home 
When the orphan’d and the widow’d 
Gaz’d upon that lifeless form. 

He had linger’d like a phantom. 

Tossed o’er earth by slightest breath: 
Friends who waited in the chamber 
Saw the merc’le"s work of death. 


13 





As a blight’d, wither’d flower, 

Shorn of beauty and of grace, 

Welcomes dewdrops, dreams of showers. 
Gently streaming o’er its face. 

As the streamlets in mid-winter, 
Crystaliz’d by nature’s hand, 

Sing of springtime and her beauties, 
Sweetly Hooding distant lands. 

As a mighty, restless chieftain, 

Chafing ’neath the tropic sun, 

Recalls visions slowly fading, 

Dreams of vict’ries never won. 

1 hus our comrade’s dream of vigor 
And of manhood ne’er returned; 

Of a life still crowned with lab’r, 

Of records faithfully earn’d. 

But his fondest hope was shatter’d, 

Was his soul o’ercast with doubt. 

When at eve, he heard the summon 
And the angel sweetly shout! 

While a Zion prelate kneeling, 

Pleading for that care-worn clay, 

Who possessed strong faith in Jesus, 
Quietly sped his soul away. 

“College Curfew” gave the warning 

That a soul so noblv true 

» 

Was set free from earthly bondage, 

And the sentries passed him through. 


14 


Is he now dead, that noble sire, 
Skilled in art, science rare; 

Has his toil so quickly ended? 

Who will fill his vacant chair? 

Masterly lie filled his station, 

Spreading sunshine, teaching truth; 
Open heart’d and good natured, 

'training thus the coining youth. 

What a lib’ral mind he foster’d, 

Ever delving, thorough and deep, 
’Midst the alcoves of the ancients, 

’Mid the strata, silent, steep. 

He would outline Grecian splendor, 

And old Egypt’s strength sublime, 
Measure distance over planets, 

Like the Hebrew Prophet’s Line. 

’Midst the sepals of the tlowers 
He would loiter day and night, 

Like the Prophet perched on Sinai, 
Waiting there a glor’ous sight. 

Skilled he was in tongues more num’rous 
Than untutored sires gone; 

He conversed with Greeks and Romans, 
Frenchmen, Germans, every one. 

Church, colleges, will you miss him? 

Such an useful one as he. 

Will vou miss him in the class-room, 

•» 

From the church and the family? 


15 


He is not dead; they never die, 

Those lab’ring for their God, race; 

Into dust their Mesh may crumble, 

Time their impress ne’er deface. 

Rest thou on in silence, brother, 

’Neath the shadows near the field; 

Like a hero thou hast conquered, 
Sheathed thy sword, hung thy shield. 

Angels crown thee at his bidding. 

Who has broke the golden bowl; 

Thou art welcom’d, thou, our comrade, 
Rest in peace, thou faithful soul. 

THE FUGITIVE. 


Wlmt laws arc these that citizens disclose? 

Their brother to condemn, his wrongs expose, 
Till, like some hunted beast that leaves his home, 
And seeks his shelter ’midst the wild, the cane. 

A man of learning and of some renown. 

Torn from his loved ones, driven from the town; 
Not because his neighbor’s blood he had spilt, 

Nor that his soul was burden’d with some guilt. 

Public opinion his doom had sealed; 

From this decision there was no appeal; 

No judge or witness upon the bench, 

No counsellor to plead in his defense. 

Naught, then, but flight could set his wrongs aright, 
So flight he sought, ‘midst darkness of the night; 
With one last look, he bade the home farewell; 
What memor’es arose no tongue can tell. 


lfi 





At Portsmouth, an old and historic town, 

A vessel to aid his flight was there found; 

He entered, and like some affrighted ghost, 

He made the sullen darkness his true host. 

He launched out upon the roaring deep, 

Where foul deeds and hidden treasures sleep; 

And in his soul a tempest, fur’ous, high, 

Was lashing into fury—rent the sky. 

All the friendship of his earlier years 

Had now retreated ’midst this gloom, these tears; 

But friendly breezes of the lurid deep 

Fanned his brow and brought relief through sleep. 

He dreamed, then in columns of bright gold, 
Temples ’rose mightier than sphinx of old; 
l* onze statues rose with innocence and grace, 
Terrac’d gardens o’erhung this fragrant place. 

Deep crystal streams along its banks were seen, 
All that land was decked in verdant green; 

Sweet accents of music at harpers’ will 
Wafted their lofty strains o’er dale and hill. 

Wand’ring Pilgrims now relieved from pain, 

Free from oppression and its slavish chain, 
Caressed again the children of their youth, 
Rejoiced in the final triumph of truth. 

The bustling crowd at dawn his slumber broke, 

• hist as King Sol from his watery couch awoke; 
What horrors! burst upon him on that strand, 

To find himself a fugitive in strange land. 


17 


THE WAIF. 


On the banks of the great Potomac 
Sat an urchin at the age of nine; 

No home, no parents, no shelter. 

And his pockets devoid of a dime. 

He was watching the drifting debris, 

That came rapidly toward the shore; 

Then he thought of life, as a river 
Which mortals are gliding swiftly o’er. 

His countenance was very gentle. 

And very fair for one of his race; 

Yet one quite accustomed to sorrow 
Could there outline misery’s sad trace. 

Then gazing upon the great city 

In its splendor, grandeur and might. 

The lad longed for food and shelter, 

And a bed for retiring that night. 

He gazed upon the great tumult, 

Twas a mirthful but motley crowd; 

He scanned some faces full of sorrow. 

And others quite as haughty and proud. 

Thinking how a city so beauteous, 

Swept on by fashion, in a whirl, 

Could be so happy and contented, 

With so much of misery in the world. 

The memories of childhood and mother 
Loomed up as a vision to his sight; 

The fireside, the trundle-bed, the prayer. 

The farewell kiss, yes, and the goodnight. 
The glow of the street lamp has faded. 

And his vision has come to but naught; 
Poor Freddie is not on the river— 

The angels this poor urchin have sought. 

18 



WHEN SUSANNA STRIKES THE S’PRANO KEY. 


Ise sure gwine to call dis eben 
On de prettiest maid of all, 

’Midst honeysuckle blossom, 

As dey linger in de fall; 

You knows she is awful bashful, 

As she sets and plays for me; 
You ought to hear Susanna 

When she strikes de s’prano key. 



She plays the sweetest music; 

It most sets a fellow wild; 

It makes me think of Georgia, 

The place I was once a child. 
Where de Georgia mellon blossom, 
And de possum grinn’d at me— 
Well, you ought to hear Susanna 
When she strikes de s’prano key. 























You talk about your shoutin' 

And forgetting every sin, 

Your midnight serenadin’ 

And your quartettes when they 
’Tain’t no use in talkin’. 

For a sight you’ll neber see 
Till you listen to Susanna 

When she strikes de s’prano key. 

Talk about your cussin’, 

And de Dixie bands dat play, 
’Bout your apple dumplin’ 

Dat you had last holiday. 

Dat don’t count for nothing; 

But come and go wid me, 

And listen to Susanna 

As she strikes de s’prano key. 

See the little pickninnies 
A scamperin’ in de sand, 

Will smooth her flowing tresses 
And kiss her ebon hand. 

Dey crowd de cabin window, 

And climb de oaken tree, 

Dey want to hear Susanna 

When she strikes de s’prano key. 

I took her to a party; 

I like to had a fight; 

Three darkies want to ’scort 
Through de lane dat very night. 

I cuts a awful caper, 

Then I bluffed them all three; 
Couldn’t rob me of Susanna 
When she strikes de s’prano key. 


sing 


20 



I tell about Susanna; 

She is the belle of Possum town; 
She keeps her bangs a floatin’, 

Her cheeks are tinted brown; 

De finest education, 

As sharp as any bee— 

Come, boys, hear Susanna 
When she strikes de s’prano key. 

I knows I love Susanna; 

We is gwine to tie next June; 
We is gwine to Possum Hollow 
To spend our honeymoon. 

Ise gwine to leave de kitchen 
And sail upon the sea. 

And nestle my Susanna 

While she strikes de s’prano key. 


THE TRANSIENT. 


The Memory of Prof. W. M. Provinder, a School 

Mate. 


As the reeds and roses in springtime 
Bud, blossom, and their flowers portray. 

Are smitten and blighted in autumn, 

Their sepals and their petals decay. 

So mortals and genius are fleeting. 
Afflicted ’bv ill fortunes entwin’d. 

Confined to realms amongst finites, 
Hedged in bv decrees most divine. 

Our launching, our voyage, our wrecking, 
Are as swift as an eagle at flight, 

Like the beauties of sunset in winter, 
These are lost in the gloom of the night. 

21 





In the strength our manhood vigor, 

Though crowned with talent most rare, 

At the dawn or noontide of greatness, 

We’re summoned from scenes that are fair. 

Then weep, a race, church or nation, 

’Midst sorrow, ’neath the shades of its gloom, 

Hound its hearthstones, highway and altars, 
Near the r’pose, the honor’d and the tomb. 

Would you measure life, its greatness, 

By the few fleeting years that have wan’d, 

The service rendered its neighbors, 

Or the souls that it wins to his name? 

At the peaceful, the mystic river, 

Stands a boatman; he is ghastly pale; 

Plies the oars to the silv’ry water; 

’Midst the tempest he unfurls the sail. 


MY FIRST POEM —SLAVERY. 


In days that have passed and gone, 
In slavery we were held fast; 

At last the chain is now broken. 
And we are free at last. 

It was not that we should linger, 
With sorrow and dreaded pain; 
So God looked down in pity 
And broke the slavish chain. 


2 ? 




With slave-pens, its whips and fetters, 
The sable sons have died; 

The dying breath of many 
Unto Jehovah cried. 

Even to the battle-field 
The sable sons have fled; 

Died there for their freedom, 

Just where they fought and bled. 

Can we afford to lose, then. 

The freedom God has given; 

Call them again to mortals, 

And then in slavery live? 

Let each man do his duty 
Toward our master’s will; 

That great will be our future, 

For we are human still. 


SATIRE ON THE HOOD LITERARY SOCIETY. 


About the faults of men we often see 
There is one most detestable to me; 

To meet in halls where wisdom ought to rise, 
Men, not fools, vet they evervthing but wise. 

’Tis not amongst the commons I commence, 

But those who deem they have the most of sense. 
They show it not by wisdom, nor by rules, 
But by wrangles which condemn them as fools. 

You must not judge a stranger, I might be 
But one who now assembles oft with thee; 

Who can friends as well as foes, wrongs detect, 
And still for them have most profound respect. 




Some will consume the time in worthless jest; 
Poor things! perhaps they do their very best; 
In sarcasm many strive to excel, 

What they are aiming at no tongue can tell. 

Like cruel Juno, all become enrag’d 
Because by them the chair is not engaged. 
Many yell, caper, filibuster loud, 

Till some become disgusted in the crowd. 

Now to the voting! here the fun begins. 

Tis caucus! cheat, and everything to win. 
Some oft to stratagem themselves betake, 
Then in a wrangle things are sure to break. 

Tis but a mark of genuine conceit, 

When men of great renown so oft’n do meet, 
But for a wrangle as a frighted ghost, 

And each decides to show he knows the most. 

That character is forming some don’t see, 

What boys are now men afterwards will be; 
Change conditions, circumstances, place, name, 
But traits developed here remain the same. 


ODE TO SPRING. 


Ho! ’tis Springtime; nature’s teeming; 

Beauties spring forth everywhere. 
Dandelions and tiny violets 
Lavish fragrance on the air. 

We must love the boasting winter, 
With his tricks he does amuse; 

Icy fingers, fleecy garments, 

Decorate in gorgeous hues. 




The boast’ng monarch now is throneless; 
Like crownless kings he frets and frowns; 

For a noble queen has taken 

From the vanquished foe his crown. 

She is beauteous, and more modest 
Than the conquer’d who retreats; 

Myriads hasten to her altars 
Lavish trophies at her feet. 

She foretells the promised children 
Who shall grace her ruling years, 

Not a crimson cheek shall glisten 
’Neath the diadem of tears. 

Sunshine, first-born of her bosom, 

Peeping high o’er hill and glade, 

Sweetly smile on rustic lovers, 

Strolling on ’neath umbrous shade. 

But the offsprings of her bosom 
Are too numerous to recall; 

Streamlets, flowers, feathered songster, 
Balmv breezes, beauties all. 


UNCLE REUBEN’S LAMENTATIONS. 


Da ain’t no days like ’fore de war, 
When Massa Richard libed, 

And Missus Anne, Lord bless her heart, 
Dem sweet in taters gibed; 

My heart longs for de Georgia land, 

From where da brung me away; 

Mv babies dat I use to tote, 

De good times of dat day. 


25 




We darkies had a good time den, 
When de day’s wurk was all don: 

v w 

De supper bell would ring to quit, 
Jus arter de ebenin’ sun. 

De ebenin’ meal was ober. 

We got our fiddles down, 

We ’ould dance, sing, hab our fun, 
Till de night was almost gon. 



Da weren’t no foolin’ wid de books. 
Like de young folks of dis kind; 
Xo wearin’ glasses on de nose. 

Xo loafing like in dis time. 


20 










We didn’t stand upon de street 
And block up de whole sidewalk, 

Dat good folks when dev came from church 
Could find no where to walk. 

We didn’t stand and hold de hands, 

And den our fingers rub, 

Den wait for some poor black man gal 
To come and bring us grub. 

We didn’t wear no big legged pants, 

And put on lots of style, 

To keep from earnin’ our own grub, 

Try to shun wurk all de while. 

We had good breedin’ in dem times, 

We neber would let dat go; 

We neber smoked in lady’s face, 

Even if dey did say so. 

We always raised our hats, you know, 
When ladies came in sight; 

We did our best to let dem see 
We knowed just what was right. 

It mignt be too much freedom now, 

Our cullard folks don gained; 

To do just like de white folks don, 

\\e tries our might and main. 

I hopes we’ll be respectful, den, 

And let de white folks know 

We ain’t lost one bit of good 
We had dem long years ago. 


27 


TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP C. C. PETTEY 


How perplexing are the actions 
Of Jehovah, King of day! 

One bv one he calls our comrades 

m 

From earth’s vineyard to their pay. 



As the florist stands in Autumn, 

Setting plantlets, clipping fiow’rs, 

W hich from Winter must be shelter’d. 
Till the Springtime with her show’rs. 


28 
















So the Master with more genius 
Forecasts danger lurking nigh; 

Plucks the pilgrims from their journey, 
Plants them in a world on high. 

In the strength of manhood vigor, 
Crowned with talents that are rare; 

In the noontime of our greatness 
We are called to realms more fair. 

Scarcely was the silence broken 
Of our noble’s sad demise. 

Ere another solemn message 
Tells us father Day now dies. 

But, alas! a race is weeping, 

’Midst the shadow of its gloom; 

Round the hearthstones, by her altars, 
Near the honored Pettey’s tomb. 

As the vulture ore the battle 
Sights his prey on lands away. 

Thus our hero scann’d the future, 

Saw the ending of this day. 

In the Counsel of our Zion 
His opinion was suppress’d; 

By the tidal wave of genius, 

Surging high with hoary crest. 

The world oft sees no perfect tlow’r 
In the seedlets newly sown. 

For the beauties in their crudeness 
Of the future flower is shorn. 


29 


But when Autumn, Winter, Springtime, 
Have o’erhung the buried seed, 

What a world of rarest beauty 
Deck the rushes, grace the weeds. 

Well he served his church, nation, 
Exalted, honor'd, true to friend— 

Won the garlands in life’s contest, 

’Midst the multitude of men. 

As he linger’d ’neath the shadows, 

As he viewed the sinking sun. 

He recount’d deeds of service. 

For his race and family done. 

As ingenius intuition 

Marks the migratory birds 

Who forsake the haunts of Winter 
And return to climes of bread, 

So emotions filled his mem’ry, 

Led him back to scenes of youth. 

Where his friendship was most fervent, 
Linger’d impress of his truth. 

He was great in human knowledge. 
Great in art and science, too, 

But the greatness of our hero 
Was the right he sought to do. 

At the peaceful, mystic river. 

Stood the boatman, ghastly pale; 

Plies the oars to silv’ry waters, 

’Midst the tempest furls the sail. 


THE OCEAN’S SONG. 


On rolls the restless ocean in numbers sweet and low; 

Her surging billows rent the sky and break on distant 
shore. 

They loiter beneath the sunbeams that kiss her 
purple cheek, 

And rush along with joyful song, while countless 
mortals weep. 

She sings of winds and hurr’canes that burst upon 
her breast; 

Of vessels laden with their wares put to an awful 
test; 

Of billows lofty and sublime, born from merc’less 
gales; 

Of helpless crews and broken spars, rudderless, with¬ 
out sails. 

She sings of mournful funer’l dirge, with sol'mn 
hymns and rites; 

Of muffl’d drums and measured tread, ’midst dark¬ 
ness of the night; 

Of long-lov’d comrade torn apart when past has 
wan’d to years; 

Of brave commanders at their post, bathed in bitter 
tears. 

She sings of dear ones left b’himl in distant climes, 
at home, 

’Waiting loved ones at their shrine o’er boundless 
billows roam; 

Of blight’d hopes and brok’n hearts that chide the 
rav’nous lea; 

Of widow’d homes or orphan’d life bequeath’d by 
angry sea. 


31 



Life is but a restless sea, and has a mournful song; 
It sings of broken homes and hearts, and grief that 
born too long; 

Of hopes which men have fondly bless’d, alas! gone! 
have fled; 

Of hearts that lov’d them they have fail’d, are 
number’d with the dead. 


MAUDELE. 


She told a sad, sad story, for one so young, so fair. 

Days of youthful weeping, on the very verge of 
despair; 

Of childhood, home and mother, when life began so 
bright; 

Tears of departed pleasure when death her home* 
stead did blight. 

Then came days of wand’ring from the threshold far 
away, 

’Midst the guiltless and the guilty, and those who 
would lead ’stray. 

What if she sometimes faltered from innocence and 
grace ? 

The Father of mercy pardons, beams of love on 
. his face. 

A sign of true repentance, seeking mercy through 
pray’r, 

When earth ascends to heaven, tears of repentance 
are there. 

A sign that sin's forsak’n, leav’ng dark deeds of the 
past, 

Bask’d in sunshine of heaven—mercy may reach us 
at last. 


32 




Rememb’r me at the altar when in silent pray’r you 
kneel, 

That a soul so weak, falter’ng, forgiveness divine 
may feel; 

That Angels write the pledges a trembling sinner 
gave; 

That hopes once blighted and buri’d be snatch’d 
from a yawning grave. 



33 
































































I pray’d for her at the alt’r, that mother—Angel 
now— 

May watch o’er the steps of her daught’r, that she 
keeps her pledge’s vow; 

’Midst sobs and sighs of her weeping iinm’rtal hope 
may beam, 

The soul overwhelmed with sadness catch its faintest 
gleam. 


THE MURDERER. 


The blackest deeds that numans have e’er seen 
Are those committed by some wretched fiend; 
Infuriated bv great greed for gain. 

Crime to crime he still adds, as links to chain. 

’Neath shades of darkness he will oft secrete, 

Mark his victims as one who slaughters sheep; 
When least they dream that life is but a span, 
They join ranks immortal, by murder’r’s hand. 

Darkness keeps secrets, ns the silent deep; 

Crimes forgotten, like pain of those who weep; 
Though the angry billows lash with great rage, 
Nothing is revealed from age to age. 

Darkness, the hermit’s kindest, truest friend; 

There life may burn her taper to the end; 

There expiated all his crimes of youth, 

All dross is burn’d. but purified the truth. 

Darkness a mart for heinous crimes, strife, 

The abyss, the chasm of this mortal life; 

Where foulest crimes and deeds of blood are wrought, 
Secreting all earth’s sins, but revealing naught. 


M 




Cataline beneath conspirator’s den. 

Mark for the slaughter some great “Roman men,” 
To slay the fathers of the “Albian Hill ” 

1'iieir honors to possess, his coffers liil 

there once “Vesuvius” pour’d forth her rage, 

A sight for “Bards” and the declining “Sage;” 
“Abeses” once swiftly led the roaring flame, 
Stiipped of his charms, “God”—alone in name. 

Darkness, the true friend to polluted thief, 

There misers from their gold oft find relief; 
Prisoners’ fetters loose their binding grasp, 

Then freedom’s song he sweetly sings at last. 

See! the guilt’est fiend with blood-shot eye; 

By his red hand, the innocent must die; 

He slyly turns down low the burning lamp, 

Holds in his hand the dagger, bloody, damp. 



Now, he tries the windows, bars the inmost door, 
Creeps to yon bed upon his trembling toes; 

Still he grasps the gleaming dagger so bold.— 
Mortal being by demons bought for gold. 


35 








See there a face with many crimes aglow; 

Alas! he strikes! he strikes! the fatal blow. 
His victim in great agony and great pain, 

Will she soon struggle back to life again? 

No; yon streaming blood pool at once portray, 
Another soul has quit the strand of day; 

Has been ushered into a strange land. 

Hastened to the grave by murder’s hand. 


THE HERO OF CALVARY. 


Tribute to the Late Rev. Madison Lewis, D. D., 
of Norfolk, Va. 


Hush! Keep silent in the chamber, 

Let the mourners softly tread; 

And the watchers cease their weeping, 

In the presence of the dead; 

Let the muses tell the story 
Of the hero cold in death. 

Of his warfare and its glory, 

That he won upon the earth. 

Many years our hero labor’d. 

For the honor’d and the low; 

Broke the bread of life to many, 

Preach’d his Christ from door to door; 

He has help’d the truly humble. 

And dismayed the mighty proud; 

Brought the message of salvation, 

To the friendless lowlv Irnv’d. 





Cleat was he in human kindness. 

Lov’d and honor’d by mankind; 

Never falter’d ’neath his duty, 

Show’d the Master’s love divine; 

He was lov’d by tott’ring children, 

By the wiek’d faltering youth, 

By the maiden, sire and mother. 

Loved because he liv’d the truth. 

’Twas not for self he lov’d to lab’r. 

But his brother rob’d in shame; 

For the fallen, for the helpless. 

To know the Mast’r, love his name; 

’Twas not wealth he was a serv’r, 

But the good he found and knew; 

That, that name might live forever, 

Lead the pilgrim safely through. 

He has bound the youthful lovers 

With sol’mn vows that they have kept 

Bound again, those almost parted— 

Round the funeral bier wept; 

Wip’d the sweat from dying mothers, 

As they trod the stream of death; 

Done the last of human kindness. 

As they drew their latest breath. 

The latest lab’rs for his Master 
In our Zion Church he stood. 

Told the story of salvation,— 

Love of Jesus and his Cod; 

Sweetest music of salvation— 

There he stood and calmly blessed; 

I love the childr’n of my fatli'r, 

But my flock, 1 love them best. 


Yes, he linger’d on the Jordan, 

O’er that stream so fierce and wild; 

’Midst the angels and his lov’d ones, 
’Neath the Saviour’s lov’ng smile; 

No matter how the swell’ng Jordan 
Flings her billows at his feet, 

Thev can ne’er harm the hero, 

While his Saviour stands to greet. 

Wife and lov’d ones in the chamber 
Wipe the dews from cheeks so fair, 

While a light from God and angels 
Calm his fears and till the air; 

All lov’d ones of his sheep-fold 
Weep and linger near the door. 

Watch to see their lov’ng shepherd 
As he launches, quits the shores. 

Wife and children, cease your weeping. 
O'er the lov’d one gone abroad: 

He has enter’d holy portals, 

Gone to reap a rich reward; 

There the sentries bade him welcome, 
Placed upon his brow a crown. 

From the banks of living waters, 

Father Lewis now looks down. 

What if crumbling brass or marble 
Never such a life unfolds— 

He has left in each affection, 

Sacred impress on the soul; 

We shall read it, as the ages 
Wane into forgotten years, 

When each heart has ceas’d its weeping. 
And each eye has dri’d its tears. 


38 



To the wife, the loving children,— 
Trophies of declining years, 

Lean upon the arm of Jesus, 

Cease your weeping, dry your tears; 

Look above, for there is comfort, 
Dream of all who love you well; 

Learn on earth redemption’s story, 

On immortals bank we'll tell. 

Farewell! farewell—Father Lewis, 

We shall greet thee evermore, 

Just across the crystal Jordan, 

To the ever smiling shore; 

We shall greet you in the city, 
Where no sorrows ever come; 

Join once more in sweet communion. 
In the everlasting home. 


ODE TO LIFE. 


Life is but a dreaded ocean 

Fill’d with crags, dangerous shoals; 

Unknown bars, threat’ning breakers, 
Dashing billows wreck our souls. 

Humans driven by swift whirlwinds, 
On mid-ocean lost from view; 

Some go down amidst the torrent, 
Some are rescu’d, these are few. 

What if lurid disappointments. 

Like Xumid’an darkness gross, 

Fling their darkness o'er our pathway, 
Till our hopes are fled and lost. 


39 




What if billows fierce uml angry, 

Dashing high in human breasts, 

Lash to fury hopes and castles, 

Scatter debris o’er their crest. 

How shall mar’ners, wreck’d ’midst darkness, 
Tossed, driven by life’s storm, 

Make their way to some safe harbor, 

Without signals for alarm? 

There’s a light house on the sea-beach, 
Human beacons burn therein; 

These, like sent’nels, guard the ocean, 

Point out shoals of slough and sin. 

There is a Pilot at each helm, 

Who foreshadows ev’ry storm; 

He a guide to humans ever, 

’Midst the darkness spreads the ’larm. 


THE PENITENT’S SOLILOQUY. 


My soul arise, thy strength renew, 
And press with vigor on. 

The rugged path of life pursue, 

In hope of an immortal crown. 

Do not stagger with thy load. 

While victory thou canst see. 

But grasp within thy hand a sword 
Ami tight for liberty. 


40 




Dost all thy sorrow make thee sad, 

Or cherished hope repine? 

Trust not to humans for succor, 

But lean on the divine. 

How many things within the past, 
Hast not thou conquered well? 

Wilt thou falter, now at last? 

Answer, speak and tell. 

Shalt thou judge the future still. 

By burdens now gone bv? 

Or shalt thou ’scend the pathless hill 
And view the sunlit skv ? 

No, thou shalt take thy courage bold, 
And stand with all thy might; 

Shortly thou shalt reach the goal. 

There pleasure has no flight. 


HONOR. 


Honor is but an empty name, 

Like rubies, often sought in vain; 
Myr’ads fall victims to her charms. 

Perish in Cleopatra’s arms; 

Like heroes, she’s soon forgott’n: thus 
She fades, she crumbles into dust. 
Deceiving as when Caesar reign’d, 
Dethroning kings, their retenue train; 
She places laur’ls on ambitious brows; 
These worn then but few fleeting hours. 
Fills souls with doubts, ling’ring fear. 
Soon crown them with di’dems of tears. 


41 




Consigns to wrecks of human life 
The abyss, slough of mortal strife. 

She leaves them as vessels that strand 
Beach’d upon sinking Summer sand. 

What a lesson! here taught by fate, 

From ’yond break’rs we start too late, 
Stake all upon a single charge; 

Fortunes to retrieve, fame ’nlarge; 

Alas! she seals our certain doom, 

Writes dishonor o’er our crumbl’ng tombs 
A heritage to descending trains 
Taints poster’ty, blights our names. 


THE ROCK HILL BUG-GY. 


Old farmer John Zed 
And his young son Toad 
Were ploughing one day 
In field near the road. 
When suddenly at once 
They heard a great splash; 
A brand new rig 
Came on in a dash. 

Twas such a great fright 
To farmer and son, 

Nothing was left them 
To do then but run. 

The driver at once, 

To add to his glee, 

Cried, “Look out. old man,— 
The Rock Hill Bug-gv.” 





The father and son 

Left both mule and plow; 

Off to the big house, 

Thev outrun the cow; 

They never did stop 

From the time they commenc’d, 

Till they plunged headlong 
’To a barbed wire fence. 

They jumped up quite high. 

They caught by their clothes, 

And hung by their pants 
As tresses that flows. 

They looked up the road 
At the driver in glee. 

The cause of consternation. 

The “Rock Hill Bug-gv.” 

’Long came the bull pup, 

To add to the fun; 

H spi’d the two farmers 
And at them he sprung. 

Uncle Zed looked up. 

As one on a spree, 

Cried the driver. “I’m trying 
My Rock Hill Bug-gv.” 

Aunt Polly came out. 

Thinking burglTs had come; 

Bounced upon Toad 

With the stick of her broom. 

But the driver stood off 
Where well he could see. 

With a pop’lar new rig. 

The “Rock Hill Bug-gy.” 


The sun hid hi* fate, 

The rain poured down, 
Drenched the two fanners 
From foot to their crown. 
With a drawn-up top 
Driver gaz’d at the three 
From his light spring rig, 
The “Rock Hill Bug-gy.” 

At the town “Rock Hill” 

We make this outfit; 
Material is fine— 

Best money can get. 

We sell them so cheap 
That farmer, or beau, 

Can buy o’er our ’phone 
Or call at our store. 


THE FAIR LADY OF BRADDECK. 


A lady fair with golden hair and a melancholy train, 

With dimpled cheeks and a queenly air, strode 
proudly o’er the main; 

The sunbeams fell with a golden hue upon that 
pallid cheek; 

Emotions rose, burst in her soul, as the billows burst 
on the deep. 

On the rock-bound coast set a lonely cot, wherein 
this maid’n dwell; 

That she came to shores from distant climes all 
in Braddeck could tell. 

Not decked in splendor of the grand, haughty, dis¬ 
dainful, proud, 

Arr’y’d in mantle of charity, as sunbeam robed in 
the cloud. 


44 





An angel of mercy to the sick, wretched, poor, and 
the young; 

Sad memor’es rose, died in her soul, as the shadow 
void of sun; 

Not lone was her mis’ry, lone on that stand, ’midst 
sol’tude, silence, ’neath cov’r, 

But hearts alike found grief akin in hearing sighs 
of another. 

Sisters, brothers, maidens, mothers, sat watching 
the open sea, 

Nursing their hope to keep it warm, a lov’d one 
stride o’er the lea. 

A floating wreck and a broken spar oft told a 
mournful tale 

That fishing barks, just o’er the bar, had perish’d 
in awful gale. 

Maiden lovers still repining over perish’d hopes 
forlorn, 

Like the verdant laden’d ivy lingering though the 
inmate gone; 

Evil omens brought the tiding of the tragedy o’er 
the sea; 

Not a murmur broke the silence; still the maidens 
watch’d the lea. 

Nevermore, quothed some spirit, like the raven 
’midst the night, 

Nevermore shalt thou lie brooding o’er deeds 
which caused thy flight; 

But the ocean, so impartial, with no thought of 
giving pain, 

Sane the storv of her exile, that brought back re- 
morse ’gain. 


45 


By the bedside of afflicted, ’midst the humble village 
fare, 

Our fair lady met a hero, skill'd in arts and science 
rare, 

Such as oft had done her homage ’midst the 
’semblage of the grand; 

Like suitors of fair Portia crav’d the honor of 
her hand. 

He was bred of noble parentage, counted sires by 
the scores; 

’Twas not wealth that brought our hero to these 
distant far shores, 

But a chance to add to learning gems that glisten 
like a crown, 

What has brought to bards and sages wealth, posi* 
lion, great renown. 

As scientist from the strata reads the tales of 
ages gone, 

Unfolds beauties to our vision gracing earth ere 
man was born, 

So our hero read the lady, found her kin to fairer 
climes. 

And a secret in her bosom toss’d her soul, wreck’d 
her mind. 

As the prison’d, fetter’d culprit forms a crevice 
for the light. 

That a ray of wan’ring sunshine may steal upon 
his sight, 

So our lady, with a longing for a kindred spirit 
there, , 

Made a crevice in her castle for n ray of sunshine 
fair. 


40 


Then our hero dream’d of pleasure which would fill 
a soul serene, 

That could win so great treasure, our ‘‘Fair Lady’' 
was his dream; 

Know the secret of her exile Mas the task on him 
impos’d, 

So the tale of her misfortune she consented, she 
exposed. 

On the banks of the Potomac sets a city strangely 
fair; 

There the mingl’d mists of summer lavish fragrance 
on the air; 

Brazen statues of our heroes left their visage 'midst 
the throng; 

There the lords, the serfs, the honor’d, join the 
chorus of one song. 

’Midst the honor’d of that city long I dwell’d a 
maiden fair. 

Often wooed, but not wedded, knew no sorrow, pain 
nor care. 

But a maiden fondly caressed by a family and by 
friends, 

But like roses shorn of beauty, these joys had a 
fatal end. 

On a gold’n morn in August long since the lurid 
mist retreat, 

Every thoroughfare was crowd’d, pedestri’ns hur- 
ri’d through the streets. 

Near our dom’cile was a garden, laden’d trees and 
verdant leave; 

These were tempting to the Hamites as fruit to 
Mother Eve. 


-17 


With a heart bent on frolic and a fright’ning for 
the young, 

With a rifle 1 secreted ’neath the flowing curtain hung. 

Then the urchin cross’d the barrier, stood upon 
garden spot, 

Unstrung nerves, quick emotion, then was fir’d a 
fatal shot. 

But the justice that was meted to a culpid gone astray 

Could not ease a soul repining or wash the guilty 
stain away. 

So I quit the scenes of pleasure, cherish’d memor’es 
of a child, 

Sought out climes for true repentance, to Breton’s 
shores exiled. 

Our fair lady and our hero will be wed ere so soon, 

Blushing llow’rs deck their pathway, glist’ning 
shadows of the moon. 

They will dream of distant Braddeck, of the care- 
worn, dear to each, 

But the misery of those strangers rise, die upon 
their speech. 

“REMEMBERED 

Tribute to Prof. James. E. McGirt, Ph. B , My Poet Friend. 

We were boys together, in early manhood’s prime; 

We lov’d to tease the muses and beg them for their 
rhyme; 

We sang in Summer’s twilight, in Winter’s early mom: 

We sang near brooks, streamlets, ’mid flow’re newly bom. 

I hear your song—it lingers in mem’rv divine, 

It tells of manhood’s burdens, of hearts so truly kind. 

Of struggles ’gainst the rapid9 — you’ve won a 
glor’ous name. 

A place amongst the honor’d, laurels, friendship and fame. 

48 





A DEPARTED HERO. 


Written and Dedicated to Rev. J. W. Murphy, Late 
Pastor of Bethel A. M. E. Church at Greens¬ 
boro, N. C., who Departed this Life Feb. gth, 
1897, after a brief illness of 18 days. 


Have you heard the news of sadness, 
Of that Bethel hero brave; 

Who has reach’d tne golden city, 

Just beyond the chilly wave ? 

Over Jordan, 

Just beyond the chilly wave. 

• 

No, pray tell me of the brother, 
Whom you call a hero brave, 

Did he shout warrior’s triumph, 

As he entered Jordan’s wave? 

Yes, he shouted. 

As he entered Jordan’s wave. 

Had he labor’d in the vineyard, 

Of the Master day by day; 

Did he bind his sheaves together, 
When his soul was called away? 

Yes, he labored, 

In the vineyard day by day. 

As a warri’r was he faithful, 

As a soldier was he bold? 

Yes, he fought and followed Jesus, 
Now he wears a crown of gold. 

He was valiant, 

Now he wears a crown of gold. 


40 




Did he linger in his chamber 

With a loathsome, dreaded sting? 

No. for angels quickly summon'd 
Bore him oil - upon their wings. 

Angels took him. 

Bore him off upon their wings. 

Short the time was that he linger'd, 
Waiting for the Master’s will; 

Brief the illness which he suffer'd. 
Sweet, his memory lingers still. 

Sweet his memory, 

Sweet his memory lingers still. 

•lust amid his useful labors, 

While the wolves were lurking near; 

Jle was taken faithful shepherd, 

Front the Hock which needs his care; 

iie was taken 

i rom the flock which needs his care. 

Join me, brothers, in the rapture 
Of a soul so nobly true; 

Let us join the heav’nly songsters, 

As they bear his spirit through; 

Sing with rapture 
Of a soul so nobly true. 

Thus the conquering hero triumph’d, 
With the banner lifted high, 

Let the family cease their mourning, 
Wipe the tears from every eve. 

Cease thy mourning. 

He is safe beyond the sky. 


50 


Safe amid the saining millions— 

List, J hear the rustling wings, 

And among the angels’ voices, 

Now our sainted hero sings; 

He is singing, 

Home at last, he sweetly sings. 

Church and people, cease thy mourning, 
Think on nobler things above; 

Strive to meet our friend in glory. 
Where all cares are lost in love; 

Strive to meet him, 

Where all cares are lost in love. 

To the ever-loving Saviour 

Wife and children turn your eyes, 

He will lead you to your loved one 
In the home beyond the skies; 

lie will Lad you 
To the home beyond the skies. 


LOREND. 


Fair Lorend was a comely maid, 

A native queen, in ebon laid; 

Like polished stones that glisten ’gainst the 
smiling sun; 

Her fair brow was tinted in brown, 


And just as worthy of a crown 

As queen who slumbers in the dust of forgot¬ 
ten tombs; 


51 




Was loved ‘and wooed by men, 

Whose fairest words always attend; 

And promised her grand castles built in regal 
style. 

Among these a prince had then come, 

From climes of the burnished sun; 

Her heart was smitten with dreams of unsus* 
pected wiles. 

My Queen, thou art so fair tonight; 

Thine eyes are like great golden light, 

That gleams from fair, distant worlds where 
angels sing their lay; 

'J hv curls in ringlet spirals roll, 

Like buds in hues of shining gold; 

Unconscious of their beauty slumber through 
the day. 

The Prince then early took his leave. 

His great large fortunes to receive; 

Then with splendor to return and make our 
maid his own. 

Xon© dreamed or e’en suspected 
That her virtue was negletled. 

Or that our Prince had caused our queenly maid 
to grieve. 

Days and months filled up pages 
That waned out into ages. 

And yet our fair and flattering Prince had 
•ne’er return’d. 

Long Lorend bemoaned the time. 

Sought him in distant, native clime. 

Knelt there pleading at his feet; “marriage this 
wrong assuages.” 


52 


Maiden, thou must quit this place, 

Ne’er again show thy pallid face; 

’Twas crowned with honor once, now dishonor 
placed; 

Forgotten, sulli’d, dishonor’d name, 

Crowned with awful, wretched shame, 

Like blighted rose faded, shorn of beauty and 
rare grace. 

Lorend, with melancholy air, 

On the verge of grimest despair, 

Turned from the kingly man who should have 
been her trust; 

Repenting tears, like goiden gems, 

Streamed down to her garment hems; 

Alas! she cried, lordly men are naught but 
mortal dust. 

To the Lord I will turn my face, 

My wand’ring steps to Him retrace; 

Naught but deep repentance can my guilty soul 
relieve; 

’Tis but the fate of erring men, 

To feel remorse and pang of sin! 

To pardon men, as pardon their guilty soul 
relieve.. 

Lingering years have fled in haste, 

Now has time changed, scene and place; 

As time is wont when man learns his fate, his 
end the grave. 

Our Prince is fallen into shame, 

Dishonor robbed his proud name; 

This the price that blemished virtue and be¬ 
trayal dr a VP. 


53 


SEP 23 1905 


The haughty Prince in penitence start, 

With broken pride and bleeding heart; 

.Seek the maiden he had led astray, in sin de¬ 
grade; 

Perchance they meet in haste one flay, 

In a motley crowded highway; 

Imploringly our Prince beseech the fair one’s 
ldess’d aid. 


She turns with calm and regal grace, 

Beholds his proud but humble face; 

Arise, my Prince, dry thy tears; why thus in 
sadness moan ? 

What if thou wrong'd a haughty maid? 

In repentance hast thou prayed? 

Mine to pardon, as the dust who pardons from 
His throne. 


The happy maid and Prince embrace, 

Tears of silent joy steal o’er face; 

Thus entwined they weep and pray, as broken 
penitents should do; 

The moanful past to them is dead, 

The maid and Prince are set to wed; 

Neath heaven’s eye, Angel’s gaze, their ancient 
vow renew. 






54 




























